


The Glorious Ones

by woodironbone



Series: We Will Not Be Leashed [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Bull plays hard to get, Drinking, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Nipple Play, Rope Bondage, Rough Oral Sex, Shenanigans, implied Sera/Dagna, nonlinear storytelling, safe kink practices, sex before romance, the Inquisitor has anxiety, the gang fights a dragon, this is self-indulgent garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5850211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodironbone/pseuds/woodironbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charting the struggle of getting the Iron Bull in bed, from the embarrassing process of flirtation to dealing with nosy companions to slaying a dragon. Castor spends a lot of time overthinking everything and doesn't know precisely what he wants until he has it, or rather, it has him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Been a Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a bunch of different stories that kind of blended together in a big partially nonlinear mess. It was difficult breaking it into chapters, it was supposed to just be one sitting, but it got so long guh, so I'm putting it all up at once. I have a lot of things to say it turns out (jk I knew that already)!!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this adventure in dumb boys having feelings and sex.
> 
>  
> 
> [(Here is my Inquisitor for visual reference.)](http://woodironbone.tumblr.com/post/137261336110/hello-tumble-i-would-like-to-share-with-you-my)

He’s not certain when things escalated to this point.

Granted, escalation seems to be the theme lately. There’s no better word to describe what has happened between him and Bull, apart from perhaps ‘abrupt.’ His entire life has been one great and terrible escalation, really, since his old self died with everyone else at the Conclave. Now he’s someone entirely different, this person who somehow has political power and religious sway.

But tonight, lying awake in his tent in the Hinterlands, listening to Bull snore beside him, what’s keeping him up is not the usual shit—the fate of the world or his place in it. Just this.

 

“What’s on your mind?” Bull asks.

“You are,” says Castor, and he smirks. “And I want you on the rest of me, too.”

 

 

“Are you all right, Inquisitor?”

The question startles him out of a solid daze. Castor looks up from the war table to find Leliana watching him with typically bright but inscrutable eyes.

“I’m… fine,” he says slowly. “A little tired.”

“Is it the new bed?” Josephine is already preparing to jot something down on her board, looking at him with fiercely earnest concern. “I can have it replaced if it’s not—”

“The bed is fine,” says Castor, giving her what he hopes is a reassuring and not at all bewildered smile.

“I thought you were perhaps having trouble with a war wound,” says Leliana, still eyeing him closely. “You seem to be limping a bit today.”

He stares at her openly, and her expression doesn’t shift, but she knows. He can _tell_ she knows.

“Really, Inquisitor, if you’ve an injury we should tend to it,” says Cullen, mercifully oblivious. “No matter how small.”

“No—really. I’m all right. I just slept a little oddly. It’s what I get for drinking Chasind Sack Mead before bed.” He chuckles weakly, and keeps his eyes on Leliana, who finally offers him a prim smile and looks back down at the table.

“Well, we certainly can’t hold that against you,” she says breezily. “You’ve more than earned the right to have a bit of fun before bed.”

“Indeed,” says Josephine, with less conviction.

So, Leliana knows, somehow (who is he kidding, she always knows everything), but she has no intention of outing him to the other advisors. She only wants to _tease_ him. Marvelous.

“Yes,” he says, rolling his shoulders back in a half-hearted attempt to fix his posture. “Er. You were saying, Commander? About the Wardens, I believe?”

He manages to avoid looking at Leliana for the rest of the meeting, and to escape afterward without so much as a glance.

 

The kitchen is no safer than the war room, as it turns out. Vivienne and Dorian are both present for some reason, perched like a pair of peacocks beside the stovetop, evidently monitoring the kettle.

“Ah, good morning, my dear,” says Vivienne with that sickly sweet, poisonous tone she seems to reserve for him. “You’re looking dreadful as always.”

“Madame,” he replies coolly. He never stoops to her little game of insults, and it’s easier to get by being as respectful as possible and avoiding her the rest of the time. In a way her outright disdain for him is comforting. It’s what he expected from humans, after all. He fetches himself a cup and casts about for something to put in it.

“Well I think he looks rather dashing,” says Dorian.

Vivienne sips whatever she’s drinking and eyes Castor up and down. “If the fashion statement you’re going for is ‘just tumbled out of bed’ then I suppose you’ve hit it spot on,” she says. “Or perhaps bludgeoned it to death.”

“I am nothing if not a man of the people,” says Castor, finally locating a spoon small enough for the narrow-necked jar of Tevinter coffee, something he’d hated the first three times he’d had it, and which he now can’t get away from.

“Nothing, indeed,” she coos.

“Don’t listen to her,” says Dorian, though it is all too clear he’s enjoying this just as much as she is. “The tousled hair is rather a good look for you. I think Bull would approve.”

The spoon clatters to the floor, spilling precious grounds into the cracks of the stonework. Castor stands rigid with his back to them both.

“Oh, nicely done,” says Dorian in exasperation.

“Darling, I’ve _no_ desire to make you repeat yourself,” says Vivienne, “but are you referring to the _Iron_ Bull?”

“No, I meant the other Bull.” Dorian rolls his eyes. “Surely you’ve noticed our newly minted Tal-Vashoth has a not-so-secret admirer? You may be cold as a fish on a slab of marble, but you’re not dead.”

“Dorian,” says Castor, turning around, cheeks flushing hot.

“Oh, pray _don’t_ wring yourself out with embarrassment, my dear,” says Vivienne wearily. “Your uncultured taste in men is of utterly no interest to me, nor is it any great surprise.”

“What a delight you are,” sighs Dorian. “You know, Castor, I was considering your plight after our discussion in the library, and I thought—perhaps if you were to speak to Krem about this. He must know something about how to bed his commanding officer. Perhaps he’s even tried it once. If that doesn’t turn anything up, you could even…”

He trails off slowly, staring at Castor’s face, the mug clutched in his hand, the disarrayed state of his clothing, and his tousled fucking hair. Castor stares back.

“Maker’s tears,” Dorian blurts. “You finally did it.”

“I am positively sick with envy,” drawls Vivienne, “for all those who _weren’t_ subjected to this magical moment.”

 

 

Bull grins. “I thought I read you right. Ben-Hassrath training, remember? Grew up learning to manipulate people. When it’s a hostile target, you give them what they want.” He moves across the room, settles down in the desk chair to get on Castor’s eye level. “But when it’s someone _you_ care about… you give them what they need.”

 

And this is what he needs, has needed for months. “You’re the Inquisitor,” Bull says casually, reading him like a fucking book. “ You didn’t ask for the job, but you’ve taken on the responsibility. You’ve got thousands of lives riding on your decisions. You bear that weight _all day_. You need a place where you can be safe, knowing someone else is in charge for a bit.”

He’d never thought about it like that before, but it’s absolutely right. Castor feels himself relax by degrees, breathing out as he answers, “I think that’s exactly what I need.”

It doesn’t start as anything more meaningful than that, and doesn’t have to go any further.

When he asks “So what is this? What are we doing?” he isn’t sure what answer he wants. That it is up to him is monumental. He doesn’t know what to do with that. Probably because it’s never been that way. Probably because he knows (and he knew when he asked, and this is _why_ he asked) that he does, in fact, want more.

That wasn’t part of the plan. Not that there had ever been a plan, outside of ‘get fucked.’

It was harder than it should have been.

 

 

“I would value your friendship.” Cullen fidgets, shifts his weight, his mumbling barely audible over the surrounding clash of blades. “I’m afraid I cannot offer more. I trust you understand.”

It hurts, stupidly. He feels embarrassed for having even brought it up. As rejections go it is the kindest Castor’s been subjected to, and it’s no doubt for the best. But he’s quick to excuse himself from the conversation all the same.

All he wants is for someone to fuck him. It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s never been a problem before. The handful of human men he’s pursued have always seemed to like him. Some were kind and others were rough, never both. It would be nice to have both. A noble ex-Templar should have been perfect for the job, as ill-fitting a pairing as it might be. But Cullen isn’t anything like Castor expected. He’s courteous, gentle, soft-spoken. The sort who’d refuse to play rough on principle. Too good for Castor, who wishes he hadn’t said anything.

He can’t even imagine Cullen holding him down, not even when he masturbates that night. It’s too aggressively out of character. Castor leaves himself unsatisfied, rolls onto his side and curls up.

 

The Iron Bull stands at the center of the battlefield, slick with rain and Venatori blood, dealing out orders to his people. Castor feels like he’s staring. He _is_ staring. Bull is bigger than he imagined. Is that normal for Qunari, or is it just him?

He keeps his cool. Asks his questions. Is appropriately alarmed by Bull’s easy admission of being a spy. He manages not to say something outrageously stupid when Bull mentions his ‘thing’ for redheads. And then?

“I’m glad you’re here, Bull.”

“If you ever need to talk more about all this, let me know.”

“Perhaps I can do things your blade can’t.”

And the worst, because he panicked: “So you’ve never really made love? Connected with someone in both body and soul?” (As if that’s something he’s even after. He could have been buried alive after saying something so infantile.)

Nothing returned. Bull even manages to slip another suggestive crack about redheads in there, with _no_ apparent regard to the actual redhead standing, trying desperately not to squirm, right in front of him. Is it possible he’s oblivious to flirtation? With all that he talks frankly about sex Castor doubts that very much indeed. And if traveling with him has taught him anything, it’s that Bull is perhaps the most incisive person he knows. Castor suspects he wouldn’t be shy about telling him he wasn’t interested, either.

Maybe it’s that that keeps the pathetic hope alive. That, and Bull being _Bull—_ casual, upfront, broad, powerful. Arms that could enfold Castor’s waist easily, crush him to that massive chest. The thought makes him shudder.

He keeps trying, and when that seems like it’s going nowhere, he turns to the only remaining option with careless, selfish desperation.

 

“You do dance about a bit, don’t you?” Dorian smiles over the top of his book. “Have you made up your mind yet?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Castor coolly, making a show of studying his own book. This is true; he _doesn’t_ know what Dorian is building up to, only that it is Dorian and he’s using his clever ‘got you’ voice.

“You _almost_ asked me to bed once.” Dorian sets his book down on his lap and laces his fingers together. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“I—” Castor knows he’s blushing and that Dorian can probably tell, somehow, even against his darker complexion, even in the library’s typically dim lighting. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh nonsense, of course it was.” Dorian looks hopelessly luxurious, like a well-fed cat. “I’m no fool and neither are you. You should know I don’t hold it against you. You’re a friend, and a good one. I prefer to keep you that way. But may I ask what changed your mind?”

Castor hesitates and thinks about running away before he gives up and sets his book aside.

“Seeing you with your father,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “knowing how… difficult this has been for you, how much it took to get away from all that… I realized I was being incredibly selfish.”

Dorian tuts, somewhere between laughter and outright shock. “Well, that’s a first. You’re sure it was _you_ being selfish and not me? Perhaps you’re confused.”

“You deserve—more,” says Castor, twisting his hands together. “More than I could give.”

“I see.” Dorian smiles. “You wanted a quick fuck and I wanted a sweeping romance, is that it?”

Castor says nothing, staring at his hands, fingers curled around each other so hard the knuckles are white.

“If you were anyone else I’d argue with that assessment,” says Dorian. “But you know me too well. Better than I know myself, I think. I can picture it all too easily. We go to bed, have a marvelous time—and it _would_ be marvelous—and then I’d have asked you if you wanted more. You’d have said no, and I’d have said that was fine. But I don’t know that that would have been true.”

Castor looks up slowly. Dorian’s gazing into the middle distance with a thoughtful frown, allowing Castor to study him without the threat of eye contact. He doesn’t know where this is going. He’s not sure how to respond. If he’s even supposed to.

“You really do… respect me, don’t you?” says Dorian eventually, and he glances back at Castor, and Castor manages not to look away.

He nods. “I do.”

“I appreciate that.” Dorian lets his hands fall back to his book, though he doesn’t resume reading. “More than you might expect.”

Castor feels gutted somehow. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t do that.” Dorian gives him a dismissive wave. “Sorry for what, that you didn’t want to use me? That you were honest with me and with yourself? I may harbor some latent attraction to you, it’s true. But I’m not heartbroken, and it means more to me that you stopped when you did, for the reasons you did. It means a great deal.”

Dorian is a kinder man than he’ll admit, possessing of greater sincerity than most would realize. Castor doesn’t know that he’s ever had a friend like this, and the thought soothes him some, eases the inherent awkwardness. “I’m glad of that,” he says. “I’m lucky to know you, Dorian.”

“Well, of course you are. I’m one of a kind.” Dorian returns to his book as though they’d been discussing little more than the weather. Castor smiles faintly and returns to his as well.

“I wasn’t asking whether you’d made up your mind about _me,_ by the way,” says Dorian after a long enough pause that Castor is actually startled.

“What?” he blurts.

Dorian lowers his book once more. “I was asking about the Iron Bull.”

Castor flushes hot and opens his mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to speak.

“Ah, yes.” Dorian grins. “Don’t think I hadn’t noticed _that,_ either.”

 

 

Castor isn’t carrying his staff—didn’t know he’d need it—but lightning crackles at his fingertips all the same when the men dressed as Inquisition soldiers attack Bull on the battlements. He bares his teeth and tenses back, but Bull doesn’t give him the chance to help, killing one in a single hit, heaving the other right over the wall.

“Yeah, yeah, my soul’s dust,” Bull grumbles. “Yours is scattered all over the ground, though, so…” He cuts himself off with an annoyed hiss as he inspects the knife wound in his shoulder, then turns to face Castor. “Sorry, boss. I thought I might need backup. Guess I’m not even worth sending professionals for.”

“You _knew_ the assassins were coming?” Castor stares up at him, not sure whether he’s angry or shocked or worried or—well, maybe a little of all three. He’s still hopped up on adrenaline from the ambush that apparently wasn’t an ambush.

“Little change in the guard rotation tipped me off,” says Bull, as matter-of-fact as ever.

“Why didn’t you tell me ahead of time?!” demands Castor.

“You go through years of Ben-Hassrath training to hide facial expressions when I wasn’t looking?” Bull tilts his head, hinting smugness without condescension.

Castor knows he’s right, but it still doesn’t sit well, not knowing, not being able to rise to Bull’s defense at the critical moment. He looks down, and Bull says, “See? Like that. If I’d warned you or the guards, the assassins would have been tipped off.”

Castor draws a breath, trying to bring himself back down. “Are you all right?” he asks, gentler.

“Fine,” says Bull dismissively. “Hurt myself worse than this fooling around in bed.”

Of course he has.

“What if they used poison?” Castor insists.

“Oh, they definitely used poison,” says Bull. “ _Saar-qamek._ Liquid form. If I hadn’t been dosing myself with the antidote, I’d be going crazy and puking my guts up right now. As it is, it stings like shit, but that’s about it.”

Well, everything’s all right then!! Castor remembers how poorly Bull reacted when he’d tried to offer comfort after losing the Dreadnought. Much as he wants to fuss and gentle the big man, it’s a hopeless endeavor.

“I had hoped the Ben-Hassrath would let you go,” he says after a moment.

“They did,” says Bull. “Sending two guys with blades against _me?_ That’s not a hit. That’s a formality. Just making it clear that I’m Tal-Vashoth.” He growls under his breath. “Tal-Va-fucking-shoth.”

Castor shoots him a look. Bull doesn’t want comfort, fine. But Castor’s not about to stand here and let him curse himself like this, like his life means nothing because he made a choice. “You acted like a Tal-Vashoth for years,” he says. “That didn’t change you. Neither does this.”

“That was just a role,” says Bull coldly. “This is my _life._ As one of _those…_ I’ve killed hundreds of Tal-Vashoth in Seheron. Bandits. Murderers. Bastards who turned their back on the Qun. And now I’m one of them.”

Castor doesn’t know how to argue this. It’s like Gatt said, he’ll never understand the Qun without being born under it. It’s all mysterious and a little unnerving, but it’s important to Bull, and Bull’s important to him. He grits his teeth and snaps out the only counter he has left: “Bullshit. You’re a good man.”

“Without the Qun to live by,” says Bull, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

Of course, because that makes all the difference. Castor resists the urge to punch him. It’s not like he could possibly hurt Bull with his tiny fist, but the man _did_ just take a poisoned knife to the shoulder. “Hey!” he says sharply. “You’re a good man! If the Ben-Hassrath don’t see that, it’s their loss.”

“Thanks, boss,” says Bull, quick and dismissive, and once again Castor feels like an idiot. Bull heaves a sigh, apparently eager to move on. “Anyway. I’ll get this cleaned up and let Red know what happened.”

Castor turns aside, but Bull reaches out to stop him. “Boss,” he says, “whatever I miss, whatever I regret, _this_ is where I want to be.”

Oh. Castor gazes up at him, not sure what to say, where this is coming from, and whether or not there’s some kind of hidden meaning in it.

Bull lets him go with a smile. “Whenever you need an ass kicked, the Iron Bull is with you.”

Was that some kind of come-on or did Castor imagine it? Probably not wise to speculate too freely. It really would be best if he got used to disappointment.

So he just nods his acknowledgment and walks away.

 

 

“I don’t see what there is to make up my mind about,” says Castor.

“Mm, perhaps that’s the wrong way to put it,” muses Dorian. “Have you had any success, shall we say?”

“No,” says Castor curtly. “Thank you for asking.”

“Well, do keep trying,” says Dorian, attention fully on his book, a smug little smile playing about his lips. “Watching you flail around the big oaf is so very entertaining.”

“Well, then it’s all worth it,” mutters Castor.

 

The Iron Bull is in his room.

The Iron Bull is _on his bed._

Castor drops his papers and stands there, stricken and silent and pinned to the spot.

“So, listen,” says Bull. “I’ve caught the hints, I get what you’re saying. You want to ride the Bull.”

Castor feels like someone has just knocked the air out of him. The phrasing is one thing, and he really shouldn’t be surprised, with Bull’s clear affection for terrible jokes. But saying he _caught the hints?_ Every desperate, pathetic hint Castor has shoved at him since the beginning? Those hints?

But he can’t work up the energy to feel even a little indignant, because Bull is on his feet and coming towards him.

“Can’t say I blame you,” says Bull, “but I’m not sure you know what you’re asking. Not sure if you’re ready for it.”

Is that what he thinks? Is that why he waited? That doesn’t matter either. Castor gives him a smile and shifts his weight, relaxing his posture. Finally. Fucking _finally._ “Oh, I’m ready for it.”

“See, you say that,” says Bull, though he comes a little closer. “But you _really_ don’t know what that means.”

Ha. What, did Bull think he was some naive little rose petal? He could almost laugh, if he weren’t so intent on being appetizing.

Castor lifts an eyebrow, looking up at him. “So why don’t you show me.”

Bull meets his smirk with one of his own, and steps neatly into Castor’s personal space, taking first one wrist and then the other, holding them in one great hand, and pulling his arms over his head. He pushes Castor a few short steps until his back hits the wall and he’s pinned, just like that. Oh. _Okay._

Castor lets out a soft gasp.

“Last chance,” says Bull, silky and low.

Castor swallows, meeting his eye. Yes. Yes. Yes.

“A little slower,” he whispers, “and a lot harder.”

Bull looks pleased.

He releases Castor’s wrists and takes him instead by the waist, pulling him away from the wall and guiding him back toward the bed. Castor lets himself be led, moving along obediently, scarcely able to believe this is _really, finally happening._ Bull lays him down and climbs over him, drawing each glove from his hands, unbuckling his overshirt with deft movements.Castor lies still, gazing up.

“How do you want this to go?” says Bull. He opens Castor’s shirt, lowering a hand to graze over his chest. Castor shivers beneath him. “Just how slow, and how hard?”

Castor isn’t sure what to say. He’s had men astride him plenty of times, but no one’s ever asked him what he wants from that position, at least not like this.

“Hold me down,” says Castor, his breath faltering. “Take your time, but don’t be gentle.”

“Mmh.” Bull catches his wrists again, drags his arms back over his head. “That’s a little more vague than I’d like, but I suppose I can work with it. You let me know if you change your mind.”

Change his mind. Again, Castor almost laughs, but then Bull’s mouth is on his chest and all he can do is breath out unsteadily. Bull licks a long, slow stroke up to his neck; his free hand cups around his waist, squeezes slowly, and Castor utters a soft, hungry sound.

“You’ve been very patient,” Bull remarks. “I like that.”

“You knew this whole time,” says Castor breathlessly.

“You bet I did.” Bull tightens his grip and Castor arches up beneath him with a tremulous whimper. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but I had to be sure you really wanted it. A lot of people see this and think they want something—and if they get it too soon, they realize they were wrong. Didn’t want to risk making things awkward between us. Plus, it’s more fun this way.” He breathes hot and slow over Castor’s neck. “You’re so desperate.”

“You _bastard,_ ” says Castor, though he can’t keep from grinning. “I was sure the moment I saw you, and I’m still— _hhah!”_

Bull sucks hard at the base of his neck, just below the line of his collar, and Castor strains beneath him, moaning, letting himself get loud. No one can hear him. It’s not like when he’d fool around with merchants or hunters in the woods or in village taverns. He has a bedroom in a tower. He can make as much noise as he wants.

“You’re not the only one who had to be sure, boss,” says Bull with a smile he can feel on his skin. He moves his hands from Castor’s wrists and waist to his hips, the line of his trousers. “Let’s see what we can do about these.”

Bull slips off his boots with ease, and Castor obliges the effort of removing the rest of his clothes by wriggling his way out of them until he’s laid bare. Bull looks him over with an air of approval.

“You look good,” he says. Sets each hand at Castor’s hips. His hands are so big and so warm. “A lot of guys would be lucky to have you.”

“A lot _have_ been,” says Castor, raising an eyebrow.

“Oho.” Bull leans down, his mouth getting close to Castor’s stomach without touching. “Am I competing with anyone?”

“No one could come close,” says Castor. He’s quivering, waiting for Bull to touch him, but Bull seems content to savor the moment, so he reaches out slowly. “May I…”

“Mm? Oh, the horns?” Bull chuckles low in his throat. “Please do.”

Castor wraps a trembling hand around each of Bull’s massive, gnarled horns, and Bull makes a faint noise of pleasure. “Hold on tight,” he advises, and then he pushes one arm beneath Castor, wrapping around his waist and hefting him up. Castor draws a startled breath, gripping the horns tightly as directed. Bull settles him into his lap and sets both hands back at his hips. He’s still dressed, but Castor can feel him through his trousers, and he shudders as Bull holds him down, giving him something to rub against.

“Go on,” says Bull softly. “You can struggle if you want.”

The permission is like a drug. Castor’s entire body twitches and his eyes fall shut as he obeys, squirming and writhing in Bull’s grip. Bull wraps both arms around him and pulls him in close, squeezing gradually tighter, and it’s all Castor can do to hold onto his horns, whimpering softly. Bull’s skin is hot and the smell of him is overpowering. Castor feels like he could melt.

Bull clutches him so tight that his cries give way into a gasp for breath, and Bull releases on cue, letting Castor slump down, fingers slipping from the horns. Castor curls in against his chest and breathes.

“Is there anything in particular you wanted?” murmurs Bull.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Bull’s arms shift around him, gently this time, to lay him back down. “Is that it?”

Castor opens his eyes, looks up at him. What are his options? Is there more he can ask for? More he can get? He doesn’t want to use Bull. He’s not ready to entertain the thought of _more._ For now, this is enough. He draws a shaky breath. “That’s it.”

“All right.” Bull steps away from the bed and undoes his harness, his belt, lets his trousers fall. There’s no ceremony about it, but it still feels like an impressive reveal. Castor knows he’s staring. He can’t help it.

“Fingers first,” says Bull. “We’re gonna take this slow.”

“I,” says Castor. “I have—lubricant in the—”

“Brought my own.” Bull smiles. “I was pretty sure you were gonna say yes.”

Castor watches him as he leans down to extract a little bottle from the pocket of his trousers.

“This stuff?” Bull holds it up. “This is the _really_ good stuff. Not that weird fancy crap they make in Val Royeaux. And we’ll be using it liberally.” He pours some out on his hands and rubs them together, warming it up, coating his fingers. He kneels down on the bed and nudges Castor’s legs open with his knee. “Why don’t you get a few of those pillows under your hips,” he says.

Castor does as he’s told.

Bull lowers his hands, lets them hover a moment. “You tell me if I should stop.”

Castor nods feverishly to show he understands.

Bull reaches between his legs, obviously, intentionally avoiding contact with Castor’s hard, twitching cock, and slips two fingers between the line of his buttocks, slicking him up. Castor shivers, grips the sheets hard.

“Just relax, boss,” says Bull. “Nice and easy.”

Castor breathes out and endeavors to loosen his muscles. Bull takes his time, as requested, fingertips playing lightly around his entrance. Castor can scarcely believe how gentle he is, with those rough, massive hands. Bull prods and teases, and Castor moans softly, wanting to beg, unable to speak.

“So patient,” murmurs Bull. “You look so good.”

He presses one finger to Castor’s opening and slides it in, and Castor jerks and shudders and accepts him greedily. Bull grunts and adds a second finger with ease.

“Good,” he says, sounding pleased. “That’s it.”

“I—” Castor sucks in a breath. “I can take another.”

“Mmmh.” Bull smirks, and Castor looks at him, looking so calm and controlled. He moves his fingers slowly in and out, drawing little noises from Castor each time. “I’ll bet you can.”

The third finger comes, and Castor almost chokes. Bull’s free hand eases under his head, rubbing soothingly at the back of his neck. Castor shuts his eyes, clenching and releasing around Bull’s fingers in an easy rhythm.

“You’re doing great.” Bull strokes his hair, then spreads his fingers out just a little, stretching him carefully. Castor’s body seizes up, tenses before surrendering to it; he gasps and moans a little louder still, wanton and hungry. Bull keeps at it for a few moments more, rotating his fingers then pulls out slowly.

Castor looks up at him. “I’m ready,” he says, his voice quavering.

“All right.” Bull recovers the lubricant and re-applies it to Castor as well as himself. Castor watches him intently, moving his hands over his cock, businesslike. He tries to imagine what it’s going to feel like, but he can’t even guess.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” says Bull reassuringly. “You’re safe.”

“I know.”

Bull presses himself against Castor, nudging gently. “Deep breaths.”

“You don’t have to coddle me,” says Castor, his voice and chest tight with anticipation.

“You think this is coddling?” Bull rumbles out a laugh. He sets one hand at Castor’s hip and one on his thigh. “Let me guess. The only people who’ve had you have either been too nice, or not nice at all.”

Castor wants to answer in the affirmative, that Bull got it in one, but can’t make a sound. Bull pushes in, past the threshold where it seems like _there’s no way this is going to happen,_ and then it very suddenly _is_ happening, Bull is inside him, and a burst of warmth expands deep in Castor’s gut. He sucks in a sharp breath, chokes out a string of slurred Elven syllables.

“Nnngh,” says Bull. “You—you okay down there?”

“Yes.” Castor nods frantically. “Yes, yes.”

“Ffffhh.” Bull huffs and pushes in a little deeper, drawing a pitched whine from his conquest. “You’re so _tight.”_

“Please,” Castor breathes, trembling, twitching, grasping, pressing his hands to Bull’s thighs. “Fuck me, _please.”_

“You got it, boss.” Bull bears down over him and grips one shoulder and the opposite hip. The pressure is enough to invoke the feeling of being pinned down, without actually restricting his movement. Bull knows exactly what he’s doing.

He thrusts in, slow at first, and then a sudden pull back. Castor’s breath hitches hard in his throat, his head leaning back. Bull holds him steady and thrusts again, a little harder. There’s so much of him, filling him up, more than he’s ever had before, and it’s agonizing and glorious. Bull knows exactly how hard to push and how patient to be; nothing feels too sharp. There is only the overwhelming pressure of so _much,_ the delicious burning sensation of Bull deep inside him, pressing against his most sensitive points. His fingers and feet are buzzing. He feels like he can’t breathe. Bull thrusts just a little faster, and a startled laugh bursts out of Castor, culminating in a sob.

“Still with me?” says Bull.

“This is—” Castor shakes his head, dizzy, his whole body buzzing. “Keep—keep going. Can you touch me, please?”

“Of course.” Bull wraps a hand firmly around Castor’s cock, enveloping it against the warmth and roughness of his palm, and Castor chokes back another cry.

“So good,” hisses Bull. “You’re doing so well.”

Castor moans long and low as Bull jerks his hips, presses back deep within him, hand working his cock patiently. He’s not going to last, but he desperately wants this to last.

“Wait,” he whispers, shudders, shakes. “Wait—”

He comes, gasping, sobbing, light exploding against his eyelids. He feels it on his stomach, hot and sticky. Bull rumbles in satisfaction, keeps his hand in place for now, keeps rolling his hips gently.

“You lasted a good long while,” he says. “It’s all right.”

Castor can’t form words. He breathes, wet and heavy, and finally opens his eyes, looking at Bull.

Bull looks back, smiles fondly. Lets his hand slip away, back to Castor’s hip. He keeps rutting slowly until, finally, he comes with a labored groan, comes thick inside him. He hunches over, resting for a moment, hands still on him, and Castor grasps at his arms, clinging back.

“Gonna pull out now,” he says huskily, and he eases himself out, drawing one final shudder from Castor.

Castor lies sprawled across the bed, gazing up at him, exhausted, happy. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“My pleasure.” Bull strokes his hair. “You doing okay?”

“I’m,” Castor laughs weakly. “More than that. That was… that was incredible.”

“Good.” Bull gets up and moves to the washroom. “Don’t move. Let me clean you up.”

He doesn’t have to, and Castor almost says as much, but why bother? If Bull wishes to care for him after, so much the better. It’s kind, kinder than he expected. Not that Bull hadn’t seemed kind, in his way. But he hasn’t experienced anything like this before—someone who could do that to him, and remain so thoughtful, so attentive. Castor has no idea where this is headed, if this is just a one-off, or something more—he has no idea what Bull wants or expects. But to lie here now and let Bull sit beside him with a warm wet towel and attend to him—that is more than he could have expected, could have wished for. He’d been telling the truth when he’d said he knew he was safe, but that was almost rote. This is _safe,_ safer than he’s felt in a long, long time.

He lies there, limp and content, watching Bull work. Bull says little, if he says anything, and that suits Castor fine for now. They’ll have to talk. He wants to talk. Just not. Now.

He doesn’t realize he’s falling asleep; just wakes up later some hours later, alone but warm.

 

 

Bull turns over and the snoring stops, and Castor looks at him sharply, half-expecting him to wake up, but a few moments pass and there is nothing but slow breathing.

It has to be obvious why they’re out here, doesn’t it? If it’s obvious to anyone, it’ll be obvious to Bull. Castor would like to think Cassandra and Sera have no idea.

 

“How do the Qunari show they’re serious about a relationship?” He tries not to fidget, not to let his face or his body language give away how shy he feels asking this.

If Bull picks up on it, and he probably does, he doesn’t let on. “They don’t,” he says. “Qunari don’t have sex for love. But for someone you really care about, there is an old tradition.”

 

Castor does care about him. More than that. He knows it but he can’t say it, not even to himself. The idea is terrifying, and it doesn’t seem to be anywhere near Bull’s circle of awareness. He doubts the explanation of the dragon’s tooth was even a suggestion. Bull sees almost everything, but not this. For this, Castor will have to prove himself.

Which is why they have made camp just near the valley where Redcliffe villagers reportedly sighted the Ferelden Frostback.

This isn’t a fact widely known, at least not among his companions. He certainly hasn’t seen fit to mention that they’re going to be fighting a high dragon in the morning. He wasn’t really sure _how_ to tell them. They can just stagger onto it, as if by accident. That’ll work. It’ll be fine.

 

Things weren’t supposed to escalate this far.


	2. Counterpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TIME TO FIGHT A DRAGON!!! And also get fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always agree on a safeword! Always be mindful of pulse points when tying someone up! Always equip Bull with the magical girl prismatic greataxe! Always avoid getting clawed up by dragons!

“I, um…” Castor shifts his weight, suddenly nervous. “So if I agree, how does this… work?”

He’s not entirely certain what he’s asking until Bull answers, fluid and unflinching. It almost has the air of a prepared statement. Bull watches him closely, unconcerned, but intent. He wants Castor to hear this, and he means every word.

“Outside this room nothing changes,” he says. “You’re the Inquisitor. You’re the boss. I will never hurt you without your permission. You will always be safe. If you’re ever uncomfortable, if you want me to stop, you say _katoh,_ and it’s over. No questions asked.”

Castor smiles easily. It’s so—attentive, so perfectly on point. He’s never known anyone who took this so seriously, and it makes him feel… something. Less alone. Reassured. Cared for.

“That sounds reasonable,” he says.

Bull gets up. “You don’t need to be afraid,” he says, and ambles towards him. Castor stares at him, or more specifically at his chest, already feeling a little thrill run up his spine. Bull comes close and stops, and Castor looks up to meet his eye.

Bull looks back with a knowing smile. “Unless you want to be.”

 

 

“Oh, man.” Bull huffs a breath, heavy, hot, and familiar. Castor shivers at the sound of it. “Is this dragon territory?” He growls in audible delight. “Oh, this is gonna be _good.”_

“Is it?” Cassandra looks up at him, squinting. “Is it really?”

Castor stares at the dragon, nested up on her cliff, shifting in slumber. From here, they have the option to retreat to the camp, or descend into the valley, after which it surely won’t take her long to notice them. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, wondering if this is truly wise. The whole idea seems a lot more suspect in daylight. Is he really going to plunge himself and three of his friends into such a daunting battle because he doesn’t know how to tell Bull he—

Well. There are other reasons to engage her sooner rather than later. There’s no telling how far across the Hinterlands she’ll wander if they let her roam free, whether she’ll head further north and threaten Redcliffe. Better to deal with it now rather than make it someone else’s problem. That’s always been his approach, after all to deal directly. If he makes a habit of carrying flowers for widowers and delivering potions on foot, he’s not going to leave this.

“Come on, Seeker, isn’t this stuff in your blood?” Bull’s saying to Cassandra. “Don’t tell me you don’t wanna take that thing down.”

“Not particularly,” says Cassandra, dry as dust. “It is up to the Inquisitor, however.”

“ _Are_ we gonna fight it, though?” Sera’s rocking on the balls of her feet, grinning like mad. “We are, aren’t we? It’d be frigging grand.”

“More than grand,” says Bull, almost growling now. “It’ll be _epic._ ”

“Oh yeah? What’s the bloody difference, then?”

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra’s tone is cautious if not concerned. She is looking at him, eyebrows raised, thoroughly nonplussed by their companions’ collective bloodlust, but she will not argue with his decision. She will follow him into whatever fire he throws them.

He swallows his trepidation, his bemusement at the Iron Bull and Sera’s excitement for the coming clash. That’s somewhat reassuring, he supposes, and he can ride their enthusiasm into some sort of confidence. He hefts his staff, gives it a little twirl, and tosses Cassandra a practiced smirk. “Come on, Cassandra. Show us what you’ve got.”

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes and lowers the visor on her helm. “Maker help us. This had better be worth it.”

“Slaying a dragon,” says Bull, shouldering the haft of his shiny new prismatic greataxe, “is _always_ worth it.”

“Yeah!” Sera punches the air with a loud whoop that echoes across the canyon. “Let’s _do this!”_

Castor plunges into the valley without a moment’s hesitation. He leads. Always.

 

 

He feels like he can’t breathe.

“Take me,” he blurts, and he would feel stupid for it if he had any time.

“Can do.” Bull catches him in both hands, picks him up, wraps his arms tight around him, and kisses him.

It’s only for a moment, but Castor freezes up utterly. He hadn’t even realized, but they hadn’t kissed that first time. It hadn’t really been called for. Now—this—whatever they’ve just embarked on—well. He’s certainly not _complaining._ He utters a small, breathless moan and rests his hands against Bull’s cheeks, thumbs brushing over the harsh ridges of his cheekbones, the rough edges of his scars. Bull chuckles against him.

This is good. This is more than he wanted, more than he thought he could possibly hope for. Dorian hadn’t been right, exactly. It wasn’t just a quick fuck he wanted. It was something he hadn’t been able to identify, something he didn’t know he could have. The way these hands fit around him, the way Bull feels, the way he doesn’t carry Castor to the bed this time, instead presses him to the wall.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers even as Bull sets him down.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” says Bull in a low voice at his ear. Castor shudders under heavy hands on his shoulders and, at the slightest nudge and the overwhelming pull of his own wants, he sinks to his knees.

 

 

Castor moves at a dead run, his companions fanning out behind him.

“Keep beneath her head whenever you can,” he barks to Cassandra and Bull, as if he has any idea what he’s talking about. “Sera, stay behind her, aim for her legs and her wings.”

“Piss on that, I’m aiming everywhere!” She is _cackling._ Bull sounds like he’s in danger of approaching sexual climax. What is wrong with these two? “What’s with all the orders, anyway?” Sera demands. “Don’t tell me what to do. Do I tell you where to point all your fancy magical shite? Y’know, apart from ‘away from me.’”

“Stay focused!” Cassandra bellows, gratifyingly. “She sees us!”

The dragon has stirred, stretching and flaring her wings, shaking her head as though to wake herself, and lets out a roar so thunderous it nearly knocks them off their feet. She lifts off and begins circling overhead slowly, spiraling down toward them as they descend into her canyon. She pulls her head back and unleashes a burst of fire down upon them.

“Incoming!” Bull shouts.

Cassandra lunges one way, Bull the other; Sera performs her signature backflip whilst firing a slew of directionless arrows, and Castor zips away with a messily cast fade step and narrowly avoids slamming into the nearest cliff face. He rebounds off and spins around, a little unsteady, eyes darting around to his scattered companions. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Almost burned off my breeches!” Sera announces, and cackles again. She’s fine.

“She’s coming around for another pass!” says Bull.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra grabs his arm, helps straighten him out. “Are you all right?”

“I’m—” He’s dizzy and a little terrified. Cassandra can see it. She’s too perceptive not to. She lets her voice drop so the others can’t hear, quiet but urgent: “There is no shame in retreating, and there is still time. We can gather more people. Are you _certain_ about this?”

He’s irrationally angry that she’s asking these prudent questions, now that his mind’s been made up, now that retreat, while still possible, would seem an utterly spineless maneuver. A selfish thought, to be more concerned with reputation than the lives of his friends. He knows, too, that it’s not her life she’s trying to protect, but his. He ought to be grateful but he only feels vague resentment.

He looks up at the dragon as she veers around, calculating the likelihood that she might follow them back to their camp.

“We’re going further in,” he says. “We have to finish this.”

“But why now?” she presses. “This doesn’t have to be your responsibility. We can—”

“It _is_ my responsibility!” he argues, and throws up a barrier which barely protects them from another blast of flame.

“What are you pissbags doing?!” Sera demands from a distance.

Cassandra’s attention is still fixed on him. She’s worried about him, and probably with good reason. He’s always been cautious, and this is out of character. “Why must _you_ do this?”

Saving him from a difficult answer, Cole appears behind him and says softly, “He needs her tooth.”

“Maker—!” Cassandra gasps, and Castor jerks aside so sharply he nearly trips over his own feet.

“Ahh!” Sera’d been running up to them, and now she skids to a halt, her face pale, more frightened by the sight of Cole than by the huge dragon still circling overhead. “Tell it not to _do_ that!”

“Cole.” Castor turns, looking at the boy incredulously. “What—”

“You need her get her tooth before her teeth get you,” says Cole intently, eyes fixed on him. “Take it, break it, make it into—”

“Not _now,_ Cole!” Castor cuts him off, glancing definitely-not-frantically at Bull, who’s running toward them as well now.

“What is he talking about?” Cassandra demands, looking at Castor.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, desperate to move things forward, knowing they don’t have time to discuss it either way. “We’re here and we can’t walk away now. We’ve agitated her and we have to finish this before she hurts anyone else.”

“Yes,” murmurs Cole helpfully.

Fortunately Bull is there to move things along. “Is there a _reason_ everyone is standing around waiting for her to—Oh, uh, hey Cole.” He looks at Castor, eyebrow raised. “Has he been here this whole time?”

“I want to help,” says Cole, drawing his daggers, lightning enchantments crackling down the blades.

“Have you been following us, you creepy little creeper?” Sera squeaks, glaring at him.

“Cole…” Castor raises his hands, struggling to assert some control over the increasingly chaotic situation.

“Hey, let him help!” Bull says impatiently, looking over his shoulder. “We don’t have time for this. We’ve got company!”

Castor looks up, but the dragon is moving on, deeper into the canyon, out of sight. He squints in confusion, but before he can even speak, Cole murmurs, “Her children are coming.”

“What?!” He turns around to see a tide of snarling dragonlings scrambling toward them. “Oh, _shit.”_

Bull and Cassandra leap forward, bashing and slamming and striking them down, several at a time, Bull laughing all the way. Cole darts into the fray, already winking out of visibility with his ghostly green shimmer. Castor and Sera get as far away as they can, and then they let loose, Sera unleashing arrow after arrow, counting her hits loudly, and Castor blasting the dragonlings with as much lightning and ice as he can muster in quick succession.

They cull the hoard quick enough, but it takes valuable effort and energy, and by the end of it Castor’s staring down the path ahead, the descent into the canyon where the mother awaits. He’s a little worn, and more than a little terrified. This was a mistake. Was it? He feels frozen. Incapable.

Bull sets a hand at his back, and Castor looks up at him. Bull’s wearing a fierce grin, blood spatter over his bright vitaar, looking fearsome and terrifying and… something. He leans down and whispers over the roar of fires, the triumphant shouts as Cassandra and Sera finish off the last of the dragonlings: “You got this, boss.”

Castor seizes his hand, holds it brief and hard, then pulls away to lead the charge.

 

 

Bull leans down, cups a hand around the back of his head. “Is there anything more you want?” he asks.

Castor looks up at him. He’s on his knees already. Surely it’s clear what he _wants._

But there is more, so much more, and Bull can see that, sense it. He’s been given a simple set of guidelines, a watchword, and a whole lot of solid innuendo. He could ask for anything.

He doesn’t think he can speak, so instead he reaches up and catches Bull’s wrist, guiding his hand slowly, carefully down until his fingers are encircling Castor’s neck.

“Mmh,” says Bull, smiling. He presses his palm against Castor’s throat, not enough to obstruct his breathing, just enough to suggest. Castor’s breathing changes anyway, becoming shallower, desperate. He fidgets.

“Stay there.” Bull straightens up and moves over to Castor’s wardrobe. Without turning, he says, “Your eyes keep darting over here. Something you want?”

Castor’s mouth is dry but he manages to say, “Top drawer.”

Bull opens the drawer, where he’ll find a couple lengths of softly woven rope, some colorful satin scarves Castor is a bit embarrassed about owning, a bottle of (apparently inferior) lubricant, and not much else. All obtained rather recently in Val Royeaux, none actually used. He hasn’t had an opportunity to try anything like this since well before the Conclave.

“There isn’t much,” he murmurs self-consciously.

“This is a fine place to start,” says Bull conversationally, taking the rope in hand. “And hey, ropework happens to be a specialty of mine. Lucky you.”

Castor swallows thickly.

Bull comes back and crouches down, clicking his tongue thoughtfully. “Shirt off,” he says after a moment’s consideration. “Arms behind your back.”

Castor doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until it shudders out of him. He undoes the clasps of his vest and slides out of it, stripping himself as quickly as possible. His hands move to his trousers, but Bull stops him.

“No,” he says. “Those stay on.”

Castor looks up at him, then puts his arms behind his back as directed, elbows out and forearms together.

“Comfortable?” Bull uncoils the rope deftly. With a fond glance, he says, “Look at you.”

 

 

“Look at that!” They come over the rise, seeing her on the ground now, waiting for them. Bull is somewhere between panting for breath and _laughing._ “That is _magnificent!”_

He and Cassandra are already bolting toward her, Cole sprinting after them. Sera springs off in her own direction, presumably to find a good spot to fire from. Castor lunges forward, closer than he necessarily should. There’s a time and a place for fighting at range, he thinks, and this is—well, probably it, but he has very little in the way of a tactical strategy, so fuck it.

Just as he reaches melee range, she lowers her head and _breathes—_ scorching flame gushing out in a thick, angry burst, engulfing Cassandra and Bull, and Castor barely has time to think before throwing up a barrier to cover them, he should have done that _first,_ he’s so distracted, can’t afford to be. She turns her head toward him, and he skates forward in the blink of an eye and a trail of mist, landing behind her just as she sweeps her tail and knocks him off his feet. She turns, and he’s still winded, scooting back frantically, boots kicking up dust, get up, get _up—_ she rears her head back, preparing to strike, and he gives up scrambling and raises a hand defensively, tries to freeze her before she can hit him full in the face, but he’s sapped, not enough energy, shit, shit, _shit—!_

Cassandra skids in front of him and catches the flame against her shield, redirecting it around them as she hunkers down. Castor stares up at her for a moment, wreathed in flame like a holy warrior, before raising his hand again and hurling a blast of ice at the dragon’s maw. Bull is suddenly behind him, hoists him up and tosses him back, out of the immediate ring of fire, before lunging in to get a solid swing on the dragon’s taloned foot. Out of the corner of his eye Castor sees Cole dropping his ghostly shimmer and striking twice on her hind leg.

Get your shit together, Lavellan. He darts back further—fade step is a simple spell, requiring little energy, and it is going to save his life many more times, he estimates—and turns upon the beast, all deafening roars and slashing claws, besieged by his friends and by Sera’s showers of arrows. Castor raises his staff and his free arm and brings a static cage down upon her. Such an attack would be enough to fell some of his toughest enemies, but she barely seems to notice.

Already he feels exhausted.

He fires bolt after bolt of electrical surges upon the beast—he finds himself wishing he’d specialized more extensively in ice spells—and she brushes them all aside like flies. Bull is taking as much damage as he deals, incautious as always. Cassandra is holding steady, bracing against each blow and each pillar of fire. Castor can’t see Cole, which he supposes is as it should be.

She rears up again, this time on her hind legs, and begins to flap her wings.

The sheer force of it, the deafening clap of leathery flesh on air, would almost be enough to knock Castor down, if she wasn’t also creating a vortex. Instead he finds himself sucked inexorably forward, into the range of tooth and claw, and no application of fade step can break him free of the whirlwind. Peripherally he spots Sera scrabbling wildly against it as well.

Castor struggles to brace himself, trying to shove the blade of his staff into the earth for something to hold onto, but the force of the vortex flips him instead, and he lands on his back. Twice now in not very much time—doesn’t bode particularly well. Why did he think he could do this?

She’s standing over him, blocking the sun, and he raises his hand and throws a ball of ice in her face. She lashes out in angry, screeching retaliation, planting a foot over him, claws dug into the dirt, holding him down.

“Oh no you don’t!” Sera yells, jumping close and stabbing a short knife into the talon, as deep as it will go.

“Sera—!” He chokes on his words as the dragon presses more of her weight onto him. “Get out of—”

“Don’t! Bloody! Tell me! What! To do!” She flings herself bodily onto the dragon’s leg, stabbing repeatedly until the foot lifts off the ground, carrying Sera with it.

“Sera!” He forces himself up—every bone in his body hurts—and hurls a frantic spike of electricity upward. Sera comes plummeting down a moment later, lands beside him with a pronounced “Oof!”

“Would you two get the fuck out of melee range?!” Bull snaps, swinging his axe just over their heads.

“Everyone’s so bloody shouty,” says Sera, nose and lip bloodied, grinning with reddened teeth. She seizes the Inquisitor by the arm and hauls him on as she makes a break for it. He launches into fade step, yanking her along with him.

“Frigging shit!” She lurches away from him, already notching another arrow. “Don’t _do_ that without asking!” She waits for no response, barreling off on her own path to resume her storm of arrows. Little bee stings. Castor turns on the dragon, still bearing down on Cassandra and Bull, and he spreads his arms to launch a full barrage of crackling light.

They’re using everything they have, and she barely seems to feel it. She staggers around in a tight circle, knocking them back, draining them. Beyond being difficult, this is _slow._ Tedious. Castor takes a moment to draw breath, leaning on his staff, feeling trapped and hopeless.

And then Bull takes a heavy hit from her foreleg, and Castor sees him crumple.

 

 

Bull goes slowly, checking and double checking each knot, every pulse point. Castor behaves himself, holding utterly still; by the end of it he’s almost in meditation, breathing steadily, all attention fixed on the texture of the ropes and the gentle brush of Bull’s fingers. His arms are bound behind his back, his chest wrapped in an artful harness, snug and rather comfortable, considering.

“All right,” murmurs Bull, planting a little kiss on the back of his neck. “Work for you?”

Castor stirs from his trance and tests the bindings, squirming just a little, drawing a low chuckle from Bull.

“Remember I said you can struggle,” he says.

“How do you know I want to?” Castor looks up at him. The question is coy, but genuine.

Bull smirks and catches his chin between thumb and curled forefinger. “You’re not such a good boy,” he says softly, a little challenge.

Castor is almost taken aback, but it’s too on point for that. Instead he grins.

“I’d like to have you in my mouth,” he says, managing not to falter. “And I’d like you to _make_ me take you.”

Bull lets out an appreciative whistle, fingers curling into the anchor point on the front of the harness, pulling him forward and forcing him to lean his head back to look up. Castor gasps, half hunger and half surprise, and Bull leans down to whisper in his ear: “Oh, you’re _filthy.”_

_Yes, he is._ Castor shivers and lets that carry into a full-bodied writhe, twisting against both the ropes and Bull’s grip on them, which is, of course, unassailable. This is what he wants. This is what he _needs._

Bull kneels down, legs folded beneath him and spread a little, fitting Castor neatly between his thighs. He keeps one hand on the harness while the other strays back to Castor’s throat. Castor draws a sharp breath, arching his neck; Bull rewards him with a rumble of satisfaction and a gentle squeeze.

“You make some pretty great sounds,” Bull remarks, tightening his hand a little more, and Castor obliges him with a shrill whine. “I do like ‘em noisy.” He releases his hold and lets Castor breathe for a moment.

Castor glances up at him, gives him a smartarse little grin. “And to think, all this time, you were after a noisy redhead,” he says. “What took you so bloody long?”

“Well, like I said, I wasn’t sure you’d be really interested in what I had to offer.” He keeps his hand on Castor’s throat, relaxed, patient. “You’re pretty convincing when you’re in charge. It wasn’t until that day on the Coast where I really saw you falter. Saw you might need something like what I can give you.”

“You saw me at Haven,” Castor protests. “I was operating on low-level panic during the entire siege.”

“Panic isn’t the same,” says Bull. “Yeah, you were scared. On the Coast, you were _hungry._ You wanted to do right by me and you wanted to prove you knew me better than Gatt. You wanted _me_ to see that. You were making the tough decision, but you were also deferring. That’s what I mean.” He squeezes Castor’s throat nice and slow, drawing a strained whimper. “So, yeah, I like redheads. But I needed more to know I was going after you. You aren’t just any redhead, boss.”

He holds Castor tightly, watching him wriggle, before relaxing again.

Castor breathes raggedly. “I wish you’d gone after me sooner,” he admits.

“I’m glad I waited, personally,” says Bull, then he leans in, breathes on Castor’s neck, making him shiver. “But we do have some catching up to do.”

Castor moans, a noise half-swallowed up into Bull’s mouth as he kisses him again, hungrier this time, more forceful. One hand curled under his chin, the other set around his throat, tilting Castor’s head as needed. Castor allows himself to be puppeted, occasionally jerking and struggling against his restraints. Bull holds him steady.

“What else do you like,” whispers Bull against his mouth. His hands move down slowly, over Castor’s chest, until his thumbs brush over each of his nipples.

Castor twitches hard, almost choking on a breath. Bull laughs.

“This?” He sets each hand on Castor’s chest, thumbs passing over gently, _too_ gently, back and forth. Castor struggles, somewhat in earnest now, whimpering, and Bull presses a little more intently at the hardening nubs. “More?”

“ _Please,”_ Castor breathes, eyes closed, back arched. Bull pinches each nipple gently between his fingers and gives them each a sharp, quick tug.

Castor actually yelps this time; that hurt, and it was _fantastic,_ and Bull hasn’t stopped, still twisting and rubbing.

“H-harder,” Castor whispers, and before he’s even finished uttering the word Bull _pulls,_ actually drawing him closer. Castor moans, desperate, pleading, and Bull chuckles, working him delicately toward some brink, pinching, caressing, tugging. Castor feels his cock hardening, pressing painfully against his trousers, the fabric pulled taut enough as it is. He whines, almost sobs, and Bull lets him go.

“How was that?” Bull rests a hand on the back of his neck, massaging lightly.

“Fuck,” Castor says breathlessly, giving him a faint smile.

“You’ve got a pretty dirty mouth, for being the Herald of whatever,” Bull says dryly.

Castor goes still beneath his hand, and Bull’s hand stills in immediate response. “Please don't,” he says quietly. “Not even as a joke.”

“Sure, boss.” He says it easily, no hesitation. “Sorry. Is there anything you _want_ me to call you?”

Castor takes a moment to think about it, glances back up at him. He’s always is so inscrutable. Gentle eye, neutral expression. “Nothing comes to mind.”

Bull smiles and slides in a little closer, covering him, reaching down to cup one huge hand over Castor’s trapped cock. “Well all right then, _Inquisitor.”_

Castor groans, muffled, against Bull’s neck, his mouth falling open as Bull kneads at him slowly. His free hand trails down behind Castor’s back, seizes the handle he’d built in for himself, connecting Castor’s arms to the harness, and gives it a sharp yank. The harness tightens around him just a little, forcing him back, drawing a strained cry. Bull growls, pushing against him, pressing him back to the wall. Castor mouths at him hungrily, no recourse but to twitch and squirm. He bites down on Bull’s shoulder, sucks as hard as he can, and Bull grunts in surprise.

“Hhh, yeah.” He relaxes his hold on the bindings, moves his hand instead to Castor’s hair, gripping tightly and holding him in place. “That’s right. You can go harder.”

Castor bites down with renewed intensity, sucks as hard as he can, thrilling at the sounds Bull is making. That _he_ is making Bull make.

Bull growls hard and pulls out of Castor’s reach, leaving him gasping, tonguing the air; Bull grips his arms, holding him back against the wall. It’s not fear Castor feels, not quite, but there is some tug in his gut, a spread of heat over his arms, prickling on the back of his neck. He shifts and struggles harder, and Bull tightens his grip hard enough to bruise.

“You’re so hot like this,” he says, his voice rough. “All helpless.”

Castor gazes up at him, flushed, breathless, disheveled. “What are you going to do about it?”

Bull laughs as if genuinely amused. He hooks his fingers back under the harness’s anchor and stands, dragging Castor up with him. Castor gasps and sways a little as he’s set unceremoniously on his feet.

“You need your hands free for this,” says Bull, wrapping his arms around Castor to undo the knots.

Probably wise, but Castor can’t stop thinking about Bull taking him forcefully, fucking him with his hands tied behind his back, and he protests, “No I don’t.”

“Yes. You do.” Bull says it with such force that Castor cannot argue. “We can work up to more dangerous stuff later. Right now, you play by my rules.”

Well, how can he object to that? “As you say,” he murmurs.

Bull frees him and spends a few moments rubbing at each of his joints and pulse points, making sure everything is in order—Castor can hardly object to being looked after so well—before he sets his hands back at Castor’s shoulders.

“Now,” he says imperiously, “get back on your knees.”

 

 

He launches himself forward, wasting precious spell energy to get to Bull faster, and drops down beside him. Cassandra doubles her efforts to draw the dragon’s aggression, buying them as much time as she can.

“Hold on, Bull!” He wishes his voice wouldn’t shake. Bull is non-responsive. Castor shoves one small arm beneath him and struggles to support his immense weight as he fumbles with his free hand to get one of the potions off his belt. With trembling fingers he administers the concoction to Bull’s lips, his own lips moving in silent prayer. It’s only a moment before Bull stirs and rewards him with a wet cough, squinting up at him.

“Don’t do that,” says Castor weakly.

Bull wastes no time in wrapping an arm around him, and for a moment Castor thinks _well, now is definitely not the time,_ before Bull rolls, dragging him along, just narrowly escaping a blast of fire.

Bull gets to his feet, helps Castor up.

“I’m fine,” he says, giving him an infuriatingly cocksure grin. “Thanks boss.” He gives him a little shove and turns back to the dragon, axe drawn, ready for more. He runs back toward her just as she spits more fire at them, and Castor hears him yell at the top of his voice: “ _Yes! Taarsidath-an halsaam!”_

No time to wonder about whatever that means. Castor runs as fast as he can back to range, though he feels like he could collapse and his lungs are on fire. The fires crackle and roar all around him, the smell of scorched earth and faintly burning flesh overwhelming, stinging his nostrils. He turns, readying himself for another assault, but the dragon chooses that moment to let out another shriek, this one piercing enough to stun them all. Castor falls to his knees, holding his head; she could kill them all but instead she flaps her wings and hoists herself back up to her perch to nurse her wounds.

“More kiddies!” Sera calls from a distance, and Castor can see Bull and Cassandra picking themselves up and turning onto another horde of dragonlings.

A hand around his arm helps him up—Cole, who then lunges toward the nearest creature and slashes through it, striking back again with quick, brutal efficiency. Castor tries to sprint away but he’s too tired and they’re too close, surrounding him. He hurls as much lightning as he can, but one of them manages to coil back and strike, tearing at his chest. He screams and staggers back, and Cole cries out as well, both of them too easily swarmed, they aren’t _sturdy_ like Cassandra and Bull, they can’t—

He throws up a frantic barrier around Cole. Arrows rain down around them, and a few of the dragonlings fall, but there are still too many, and he’s bleeding, he can’t breathe for all the smoke, no, fuck, _shit,_ no—

Bull’s axe shears through the creatures, spattering Castor with more of their blood. Cassandra launches in beside him, slashing and tearing at the rest. Bull crouches down, supporting Castor with far greater ease, and sets one of his own potion gently at his lips. Castor drinks it desperately and feels the hot surge of healing magic course through him. He comes away with a violent cough, and Bull lifts him up.

“Come on, boss,” he says in a husky voice. “She’s back in her nest. We’re going after her.”

“This way!” Cassandra leads the charge, Sera hollering with excitement as she follows. Cole seems to have recovered well enough, fading out of sight again as he follows.

Castor picks himself up and follows Bull at the rear of the party. Look at them all: beaten, bruised and bloody, but ready for more, going up after the dragon with dogged determination. They can do this. They can do this. The potion has him on his feet but his chest still hurts, and he clutches at his torn coat with his free hand as he stumbles after them.

They climb up to her roosting place, all of them gasping, singed, and exhausted. It’s Cassandra who makes the first strike, Bull shortly after with a blow that shatters the earth. The area is small, there’s no place for Sera and Castor to stand at their safe distance, so they just make do. Sera fires arrows in a tight stream, getting in occasional whacks with the bladed edges of her bow, and Castor alternates between arcs of lightning and old-fashioned bludgeoning.

She’s wounded, angry; she rears her head back and snaps at Castor, and he jerks back and narrowly avoids being snatched up in her jaws. He’s just as desperate—if they don’t finish this, she will—and he blasts her with as much ice as he can manage before finally opening a rift over her head, dragging her life energy up into a single point. She groans, long and labored, and for a moment Castor feels a terrible pang, watching the final struggle of this magnificent, deadly creature.

The Iron Bull leaps up and slams his axe down in a finishing strike. She lets out a dying growl before shuddering and crumpling heavily, shaking the earth.

 

 

Castor drops, breathing heavily. He wishes Bull would strip him entirely, but it’s almost just as well his cock is still tucked away, straining tortuously. Makes him that much more agitated.

Bull seizes him by the hair. “You are not to touch yourself until I say so. If this gets to be too much, or you can’t breathe, touch your hand to one of my feet. Repeat your instructions back to me.”

“I will not touch myself without your permission,” says Castor softly. He’s trembling, not with fear or anxiety, but with a wonderful sort of anticipation he hasn’t felt in years, if ever. “If I need to stop I’ll touch one of your feet.”

“Good.” Bull keeps his grip firm on Castor’s hair, giving him a slight shake. Castor’s breath comes fast and shallow. Bull reaches down with his other hand shoves his trousers down, letting them fall to his feet. He takes his cock in hand and directs it toward Castor’s mouth.

Castor keeps his mouth shut. The head brushes against his lips, already wet, smearing a little cum on his lips.

“Mmnh,” Bull growls. “Is _that_ how you want to play.”

The effort of not parting his lips is greater than he expected. He keeps his hands behind his back as if they’re still tied, shifts a little, pinned by the hand in his hair. He looks up at Bull steadily.

Bull smiles back. He shoves himself forward, and Castor turns his head as much as he can, letting it rub across his face. He said he wanted Bull to make him, and he meant it. His eyes flutter shut as Bull drags the shaft over him slowly, playing along even better than he’d hoped.

“I think you’re hungry for it,” says Bull, fingers curling tighter into his hair. Then, in one sharp movement, he releases Castor’s hair and shifts his hand instead to his throat, holding without squeezing. Castor understands the game; Bull doesn’t want to risk damaging his throat in so precarious a position, but the intent is clear. Castor gasps for breath and Bull shoves himself in.

There’s so _much_ of him. Castor opens his mouth as wide as he can, his cheeks hollowing as he takes as much of Bull as will fit. Bull groans loudly and grabs his hair again. His other hand presses against the wall, bracing himself. He starts jerking his hips, slow, small twitches at first, but Castor has given a lot of head in his time and he has absolutely no qualms about going further. He moans softly as he takes in more, his tongue working along the underside of the shaft, until the head brushes against the back of his throat. He’s never had this much in his mouth but he still manages not to gag; Bull mutters something incoherent and vaguely astonished. Castor feels a swell of pride in his chest, among other things.

Bull manipulates him easily with the hand in his hair, pulling and pushing him, on and off, moving him in time with each increasingly rough jerk of his hips. Castor takes him in deep and swallows around him, and Bull shudders heavily, holding him so tight it hurts. Castor feels like he’s going to burst.

“Yyyou,” Bull says through his teeth. “Go on. I want to see you come while I’m in your mouth.”

Castor moves feverishly to get his cock out, clutching at it and giving it a few sharp, twisting jerks. Bull keeps fucking him, a little harder now, staring down at him. Castor feels like he’s on fire, Bull shoved into his mouth, down his throat, him on his knees and so thoroughly debauched, it’s exquisite. It doesn’t take him long at all.

Almost immediately after he finishes, Bull draws himself out and comes on Castor’s face.

He hadn’t been expecting that—he’d thought Bull would want him to swallow, and he was perfectly willing. But this—this is better.

He shivers violently and slumps down. Bull crouches down and catches him, then picks him up. Castor can feel that he’s trembling just a little.

Bull carries him to the washroom and immediately sets about cleaning him up, again. Castor just gazes at him, smiling stupidly.

“Good?” says Bull.

Castor’s smile turns into a laugh, faint and shaky. “Good.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

 

After that it’s easier. Each time they meet, either in Castor’s bedchamber or the miserable little room above the tavern they’ve laid dubious claim to, they take things a little further, experimenting, challenging, fooling around. Castor isn’t certain when things shifted for him, when he moved from ‘casual sex’ to ‘I’m going to kill a dragon for you.’ There was never any time to realize something like that on his knees with Bull in his mouth, or tied to the bedposts, or being fucked into the mattress.

 

He has no idea if this is even going to work.

 

 

The party is silent for several moments, apart from the collective heavy breathing (Bull a little harder than the others), before Sera makes Castor jump with a loud “ _Yeah!”_ She punches the air again. “Big friggin’ heroes, us!”

“She wanted to eat us, and now she can’t,” says Cole quietly, sounding as triumphant as Cole can sound. Castor supposes if he’s at peace with their task, that’s the most he can ask for.

“Is everyone all right?” Castor asks tentatively.

“Never better!” says Bull with a big dumb grin. “See the way everything lit up when it tried to fry us? Now THAT is a fight.”

“That last burst of flame nearly roasted us,” says Cassandra, though even she looks flushed and a little excited.

“I know, right?” Bull lets out a big laugh and claps a heavy hand on Castor’s shoulder, rocking him a little. “Boss, I want you to know… you’re the best.”

Castor is seized by an urge to kiss him, as well as punch him. He manages to keep from doing either.

“Inquisitor,” says Cassandra, recovering some semblance of self-control, “we should return to camp.”

“I agree.” Castor sighs, starting to really feel the aches in his entire body, the waves of pain still radiating from the chest wound. He looks down at the massive carcass. “Pick up whatever you can find and we’ll head back.”

He sees what he wants. It’s a bit gruesome, if he thinks about it, so he doesn’t. He crouches down and picks up the tooth, slips it into the satchel at his belt, and glances over his shoulder. Bull hasn’t seen, too busy gazing manfully off into the distance while Sera hoots and hollers about their victory.

“You did it,” says Cole quietly.

Castor looks up at him. “You knew,” he says.

Cole hesitates before sitting down beside him. “You… want him to know you mean it,” he says. “You want it very loudly. It’s important to you, and I wanted to help.”

Castor manages a faint smile. “You did,” he says. “Do you think he’ll… like it?”

“I… don’t know,” says Cole, sounding almost surprised by the question. “I’m not very good at knowing things like that.”

“Are you gonna have a bloody picnic with it or can we go home now?” Sera demands. “My ass is killing me!”

Castor waves her off and gets to his feet. Bull steps over and gives him a surreptitious swat. “Soon it won’t be the only one,” he says under his breath, and Castor shivers and thinks, again and very vividly, about punching him.


	3. The Glorious Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castor contends with hangovers and racism and intense insecurity.

They’ve been back at Skyhold only a few hours, barely enough time for Castor to have a desperately needed bath and prepare himself mentally for the task of visiting Bull in the tavern. It’s too late to go bothering Dagna about making the tooth into anything—well, she’d probably be up and entirely ready to work, but Castor doesn’t feel right asking at this hour. And he’s not ready. This is a serious step. He needs to be ready. Whatever that means.

Tomorrow.

For now, he heads to the Herald’s Rest, where he finds Bull not in his usual seat, but at the bar. Bull sees him, somehow, looking over his shoulder on his blind side, giving Castor cause to think Bull can just _hear_ him approaching. He wouldn’t put it past the man.

“Inquisitor!” Bull slouches onto the bar as Castor sits beside him. “Come, have a drink!”

He wastes no time filling a tankard the size of Castor’s head with something that smells faintly of—well, Castor can only imagine that’s what death smells like. Bull slides the tankard over and sets the bottle down.

“To killing a high dragon like _warriors of legennnd!”_ he bellows. He’s obviously had a few already.

Castor eyes the liquor with a suspicion normally reserved for Leliana’s war table plans. “What exactly am I supposed to be drinking?”

“ _Maraas-Lok,”_ answers Bull, ever so helpfully.

“What does that mean?”

“It means _drink!”_ Bull laughs, and Castor wonders why he expected anything more specific than that.

Well, who is he to turn down a victory celebration with the man he (sort of, maybe, definitely, shit) loves? He accepts the toast with wary bemusement and knocks the concoction back. One swallow, he thinks, that’s the only way he’s getting it down.

Oh holy shit.

He heaves forward, slamming the tankard back on the bar, coughing and half-choking on the miserable stuff. His throat is burning. It’s horrible. And kind of fantastic.

Bull’s grinning at him, chuckling to himself. “I know, right? Put some chest on your chest!”

Castor’s already feeling it. He makes a concerted effort to sit up straight, meeting Bull’s gaze without flinching. Bull rumbles out a noise of deep satisfaction, and Castor feels a little twinge in his gut, lets his legs spread a little without even thinking. The way Bull growls, those heavy murmurs that start deep in his chest—Castor remembers the vibration of them, pressed against him in bed, against the wall.

Bull, for his part, is on another plane entirely. “That little _gurgle_ right before it spat fire—and that _roar!_ What I wouldn’t give to roar like that! The way the ground _shook_ when it landed… the smell of the fires _burning! Taarsidath-an halsaam!”_

Castor watches him in a mixture of bewilderment and fascination. He’s never seen Bull quite like this, off in his own world getting—one might say _aroused—_ at the thought of that dragon. Castor likes it a great deal. Slaying the Frostback was definitively worth it, he thinks. Even if his chest still hurts a little, even if now throat is on fire and he’s already a little unbalanced.

“You know, Qunari hold dragons sacred,” Bull muses. “Well. As much as we hold anything sacred.” He raises the bottle and pours Castor another tankard-full. “Here. Your turn.”

Wasn’t it just his turn? No matter. “That thing you just said,” says Castor, the particular earnestness of his natural curiosity only magnified by the alcohol. “You shouted it during the fight, too. What does it mean?”

“Oh,” says Bull. “ _Taarsidath-an halsaam?”_ He gives it only a moment’s consideration. “Closest translation would be… ‘I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect.’”

Oh. Well. If Castor had any doubts about the arousal he’d been sensing.

“You shouted that while it was breathing fire at us,” says Castor, not sure if he’s surprised or scandalized or not even a little of either.

“I know, right?” Bull lets out another intense grunt, and Castor shivers slightly and thinks, well, if it’s sexual pleasure he wants. He can think about the dragon the whole time. That’s fine with him.

He drinks again, and it hits just as hard, perhaps with less fire in his throat. He’s pretty sure this stuff is going to kill him. That’s okay. He’s swaying now, can’t help it, sort of gently rocking back and forth on his stool. Bull’s smiling at him with such genuine pleasure, it’s all worth it.

“ _Yesss,”_ Bull growls, “the second cup’s easier. Most of the nerves in your throat are dead after the first one.”

Yes, that would account for the lessened burning. Castor smiles back, he suspects stupidly, and says nothing, waiting for Bull to say more about dragons. There’s got to be more, and he wants to hear. It’s so rare for Bull to be this excited about anything. If he’d known it would be like this, well… he wouldn’t have needed the excuse of a tooth to take him dragon hunting.

“ _Ataashi,”_ says Bull. “‘The glorious ones.’ That’s our word for them.” He hums it to himself, melodic and affectionate. “ _Ataaaa-shiiii.”_

“Why do you think the Qunari think of dragons that way?” asks Castor, gazing up at him. He’d probably never have described the Iron Bull ‘beautiful’, if anyone had put it to him. So big and scarred up and leathery, crass and crude, tough, warlike. But that’s ridiculous. There’s nothing saying those things can’t also be beautiful. Nothing to say the Iron Bull can’t be, _isn’t_ beautiful. He is. Just as he was during the fight, all covered in blood and warpaint, grinning with fervor. Castor watches him, in the throes of joy and exhilaration about the work they’ve done, and he _is_ beautiful, utterly.

“Well,” says Bull, the effort to form words now becoming audible, “you know how we have horns. We kind of look more… dragony than most people. Maybe it’s that. But… a few of the Ben-Hassrath have this crazy old theory. See… the Tamassrans control who we mate with. They breed us for jobs like you’d breed dogs or horses. What if they mixed in some dragon a long time ago? Maybeee… drinking the blood, maybe magic, I don’t know. But something in that dragon we killed…” he lets out another soft growl, “ _spoke_ to me.”

This is horrifying, Castor thinks. Well, it should be. Most humans would think so. He manages to take this casual anecdote about Bull being bred for a purpose with relaxed acceptance, no need to discuss it. Is it how he feels for the Iron Bull that makes the Qun less horrifying? It doesn’t have to be. Coming from a culture that barely even understands itself, who is Castor to judge?

So instead of rendering judgment, he slurs, “S’a shame we hadto kill th’ dragon.”

“Damn good fight,” replies Bull. “Dragons are the embodiment of raw power. But it’s all uncontrolled. Savage. So.” He pours them each another. “They need to be destroyed. Taming the wild, order out of chaos.” He chuckles and slides Castor’s tankard back over. “Have another drink.”

Well, he’s come this far. Castor knocks back the third and chokes on it again, but it’s almost starting to become pleasant now. Bull laughs uproariously. “Nice!” he declares. “To dragons!” He drinks his own, and it’s both vindicating and alarming that he, too, loses himself in a momentary coughing fit.

“To th’ Iron Bull!” Castor yells back, attempting to give him a friendly shove and instead slumping over until he’s practically lying on the counter, staring up at the great horned man.

“And his ass-kicking Inquisitor!” shouts Bull. He looks down at Castor and says, softer, “Hey! Hey. Kadan. I always wanna say this, and… I never can when we’re off saving the world. You’ve got a _fantastic_ ass.”

The noise that comes out of Castor in response is horrendously embarrassing, but he can’t be bothered about it. He grins a terribly stupid grin. “Soooo,” he says, he thinks seductively. “D’you wanna… bring yourself sexual pleasure _now,_ while thinking about that with great respect?”

Bull lets out another raucous laugh and Castor giggles drunkenly.

“Allll right,” says Bull, and gets up. “C’mere, boss.”

He hefts Castor up in his arms, practically throwing him over his shoulder.

“Ooh,” Castor remarks. This is not what he expected, and everyone in the tavern can definitely see them, but that’s okay.

Bull carries him upstairs, past Sutherland, who salutes, bless him, and past the watchful gaze of Cole, to the shitheap little room the Inquisitor has more or less claimed as his unofficial napping space. That’s the formal explanation of why he needs it.

Bull lays him down gently on the creaky bed and begins undressing him, hands surprisingly deft for how drunk he is. Castor lies there, the room spinning pleasantly around him, gazing at the ceiling.

Bull pulls the sheets over him and pats his head. “Get some good rest. You’ve earned it.”

Castor blinks up at him. “Wait.”

Bull holds up a hand. “Not tonight, boss,” he says. “You drank like a champion and it leveled you. No fun with you like that. I need you alert. In case you need to say katoh, and can’t.” He leans down and plants an impossibly tiny kiss on Castor’s brow. “Come visit me tomorrow, and I promise I’ll clear your headache right up.”

Castor whines in protest, but he knows Bull’s right, deep down. Stupid… decent bastard.

And anyway, he is already starting to drift off. Bed is so nice. Thank goodness for bed.

“Y’re very pretty dragon,” he says sleepily.

“Thanks boss,” says Bull, and he leaves Castor to his snoring, shutting the door quietly behind him.

 

 

“Is that what I _think_ it is?!” Dagna squeaks.

Castor winces and rubs gingerly at his brow. “Please not so loud, Dagna.”

“Sorry, sorry—it’s just—wow, I’ve never actually gotten to hold one before. It’s so— _big.”_

Sera cackles. What is she even doing here. “That sounded dirty, Widdle!”

“Oh, I can get dirtier,” says Dagna, practically business-like. “Did you know dragon bone is one of the strongest substances there is? So it’s big, _and_ hard.”

Sera tumbles backwards off the crafting table with a wave of agonizingly loud laughter, and Castor turns to stare woefully at Harritt, who stares back with the look of a man who’s seen too much.

“Dagna,” says Castor with all the patience he can muster. “About what I asked for—”

“Yes, I can do that, no problem!” says Dagna. “Harritt can split it, I can do the rest. I’m thinking… obsidian for the casing?”

“Yes, all right,” says Castor mildly.

“What’s this for, anyway?” Sera’s back on the table again, swinging her legs like an overexcited child. “Some kinda dragon-killing trophy? Gonna wear it as a necklace? Doesn’t seem like you, Ser Lordybloomers.”

“Well, we’re making two of them, and it took five people to actually take down the Frostback,” says Dagna even as she sizes up the tooth and sets about sketching out notes. “So I’m assuming this is more of a… token. Maybe… a romantic gesture?”

Castor flushes hot and says nothing. This conversation was well out of his control before it even got going. He’s far too hungover for this.

“Whaaaaaaat!” Sera’s eyes have gone huge, and she’s staring at him with an equally huge horrible grin. “It’s for Iron Bull, isn’t it? It IS. I knew it. I _knew_ it! Blackwall owes me a sovereign.”

“Hrghf,” says Castor, face now thoroughly buried in his hands. Distantly he can hear Harritt wandering off to his own worktable muttering about ‘end times’ and ‘never get that outta my head.’ So, now Leliana, Dorian, Vivienne, everyone in the tavern last night, Sera, Blackwall, Dagna, and the blacksmith are up to date on the most unsavory details of his personal life. How terribly cozy.

“Well, I’ll be sure to make it perfect,” says Dagna with a big smile. “Should be ready later this afternoon. I’ll work fast.”

“Just leave it to Widdle,” says Sera with a touch of pride. “Now go eat some bread or something, you look like shit.”

Castor is all too happy to depart the Undercroft. He sighs heavily, shutting the door as gently as he can, turns, and startles so badly he pins himself back against the door. Bull is standing right there, as though he’d been about to come in.

“Hey,” says Bull, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. “Sorry, boss. Been looking for you.”

“Wh—yes,” says Castor, swallowing and attempting to relax. His head is pounding. He winces and grinds the heel of his hand against his eye socket. “Is something the matter?”

“Still feeling last night, huh?” Bull keeps his hand on his shoulder, gazing steadily down at him. “When was the last time you had some water?”

Castor waves off the concern, pulling away from him. He feels like if he looks directly at Bull he’ll give something away. The thrill of having defeated the dragon has already worn off, as has any confidence that this necklace is a good idea. He just wants to lie down with his face buried in pillows.

“I’m fine,” he lies. “What’s going on?”

Bull grunts in clear disapproval but lets it sit for now. “We had an incident this morning,” he says. “Spies in the ranks. A few of my boys caught wind of them asking suspicious questions. Once they realized their cover was blown they tried to fight their way out.”

“Is anyone hurt?” Castor straightens up, shifting all too easily into the demeanor required of a leader. He can’t worry about his head or his heart, and so he sets those aches aside. Bull sees him doing it because of course he does, but Castor can’t focus on that either.

“Nothing the healers can’t handle,” says Bull. “Well. One of the spies is dead. But the rest are in custody.”

“Do we know who they’re working for?” Castor starts moving, expecting Bull to guide him to where he needs to go. Bull keeps pace with him, leading him out of the main hall.

“Red’s people are on it now,” he says. “I don’t think they’re with Corypheus, at least not directly. This doesn’t seem like his style.”

“No,” Castor agrees. He follows Bull down the stairs to the dungeon entrance, into the narrow little passage. Bull stops him there with a hand on his arm.

“Listen, boss,” he says. “I can tell them you aren’t up to this.”

“Why?” Castor looks up at him in genuine bewilderment.

“Because you look like shit,” says Bull. “You don’t have to see to this right now. Leliana’s people can handle it.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Castor’s brow furrows, and the pain in his temples intensifies as their voices echo in the cramped stairwell.

Bull grunts, looking away for a moment. “I told you one of them is dead,” he says. “That was Skinner’s doing. They came after her and Dalish hardest. These spies… I think they’re some kind of… anti-elf coalition, or some shit like that. I think this might be personal.”

“Tch.” Castor presses a hand to his brow, glaring at the stone steps beneath their feet. “I don’t need you to protect me from that, Bull.”

“I know that.” Bull reaches out to him and turns him gently to face him, though Castor keeps looking stubbornly at the floor. “What’s going on, boss? You’re avoiding looking at me. You know I can see it, right?”

“I—” Castor looks up at him, torn between frustration and guilt. “It’s not—Nothing to do with this.”

“Well, I didn’t think it was.” Bull peers at him. “Is this about last night?”

“Nothing _happened_ last night,” says Castor wearily.

“Hey.” Bull touches his chin, and Castor closes his eyes. “You can talk to me, kadan.”

 _Kadan—_ Bull called him that last night, he remembers. He wants to ask what it means, but now is not the moment.

“I know I can.” Castor curls his hand around Bull’s, finally looking him in the eye. “There… there is something I want to discuss, but it can’t happen now. Especially not _here._ Other than that, I’m just… tired. My head is killing me.”

“Yeah.” Bull lets him go. “Well, you really don’t have to see to this right now. We can go somewhere and you can rest and we can talk.”

“Thank you,” says Castor, turning away from him, “but I would rather attend to this matter now.”

“Sure, boss.” Apparently satisfied, Bull walks with him the rest of the way down the stairs.

 

The prisoners are all human, and one of them spits on his boot while pronouncing him ‘knife-ear scum,’ so, Bull’s theory seems sound. Castor bears their baleful looks as he discusses the matter with Leliana, calm and collected, refusing to show how deep under his skin they’ve crawled.

It should be nothing. It is nothing. Nothing new, nothing startling. Same shit he’s been subjected to his whole life, only magnified under the responsibility of leading the Inquisition and the forced association with their Maker’s bride.

He’s tired.

Leliana’s suggestions range from blackmail to execution, Josephine’s remain strictly diplomatic. Castor can’t decide this now. He’ll judge them later, officially. He manages to duck out before Bull can get to him. Later. He needs to be alone.

 

Back in his room, he curls up with a pillow over his face, willing his head to stop hurting. He’s almost asleep when a knock rouses him, and he drags himself up and opens the door sharply.

“Oh—sorry, your worship,” says Dagna sheepishly. “I didn’t know you were napping. Here. I finished with the tooth.”

She hands him two perfectly crafted identical necklaces. They look gorgeous. Castor takes them and makes a show of admiring one of them for a moment—as tired and worn down as he is, Dagna deserves to see his appreciation.

“Wonderfully done,” he says. “Thank you, Dagna.”

“Sure thing!” She steps back, giving him a jaunty little salute. “Good luck, Inquisitor.”

He trudges back up the stairs and to his bed, sets the pair of necklaces beside him and stares at them for a moment. He could very easily just put them in a drawer for safekeeping, put this off even longer. He can see himself stalling that much, especially today where everything seems impossible.

Instead, he shoves one of them under his pillow and takes the other, tucking it into his satchel, and carrying it with him as he ventures down, out into the main hall, and out toward the tavern.

 

 

“How can I help?” says Bull, eyeing him, wearing a sly smile. Maryden strums something light and soothing over by the fire.

Castor swallows his trepidation, or as much of it as he can. “I have something for you,” he says.

“Really.” Bull smiles. “Well. I think I’ve got something for you, too.” He gets up, stretches once. Castor can hear a joint crack somewhere. “Come on. I’ll go first.”

He guides Castor up the stairs, past Sutherland (another salute), past Cole (staring intently), to their little room. Castor would have almost preferred to do this in his chambers for greater privacy and to show Bull both of the pieces at once, but he can’t think of a reasonable excuse. This will do.

“You okay?” Bull shuts the door and comes over to him. “Seems like they got to you.”

Castor sighs and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have let them,” he says. “They don’t matter.”

“They’re assholes,” Bull agrees, “but they still got to you, and that’s not a failing on your part. Come on.” He draws him over to the bed, sits him down, and then kneels, holding Castor’s hands in his own. “There are always gonna be people who hate you for some dumb reason. That’s what comes of being different, and being in charge. I’ve had to bear a bit of both, but nothing like what you’re going through. Just remember that you’re stronger than all of them. That someone who calls himself ‘the Iron Bull’, who killed a high dragon with a magical prismatic greataxe, is telling you that.”

Castor laughs softly, rubbing his thumbs over Bull’s palms. “Are you all right with having to carry that thing around?” he says.

“It’s a great weapon,” says Bull. “And it’s pretty. I like pretty things. You may have noticed.” He reaches up and brushes a thumb over Castor’s cheek.

Castor smirks and averts his eyes.

“Hey.” Bull catches his chin and tilts his head back up. “You are pretty. Don’t tell me nobody’s told you that.”

“It’s just…” Castor shrugs, sheepish.

“I’m serious! It’s not just the hair. You and Krem and your matching haircuts. That’s kinda weird, to be honest.” Bull huffs but ruffles his hair good-naturedly, fingers brushing over the close-shorn part. “Your skin is such a nice color. Qunari are mostly varying shades of gray. You’re this nice rich brown… and you have _freckles!_ I didn’t even notice the freckles until I got up close. Freckles are so weird.”

“Thank you,” says Castor dryly, and Bull laughs.

“Point is, I love my greataxe. I like being able to take shit down with a big sparkly weapon made of light. That’s cool.”

“Good.” Castor smiles warmly at him.

Bull’s expression softens. “Don’t beat yourself up for letting them get to you, boss,” he says. “But don’t worry too much about them, either. They’re nothing. You? You’re everything. To your people, and to me.”

Castor stares at him, stunned, and isn’t sure if he’s supposed to say something. Bull doesn’t give him much of a chance, clearing his throat and getting back to his feet.

“All right,” he says briskly. “You need a break. Here. I’ll do a little strip tease for you.”

“Oh, Mythal, don’t.” Castor giggles in embarrassment, hiding his face.

“Come on, you’ll like it.” Bull takes a few steps back and unfastens his belt slowly, slipping it from his waist with surprising grace. Castor can’t help but be a little transfixed, watching as Bull drops the leather strap on the messy floor, then moves to unbuckle his harness.

Bull’s always a little touchy about his weight, but Castor loves it, that round, heavy belly, and he’s let Bull know he loves it a few times. Noting the direction of Castor’s gaze, Bull relieves himself of his harness, dropping that as well, and comes forward obligingly.

Castor reaches up and presses his gloved hands gently to Bull’s stomach.

“Mmm.” Bull smiles, seeming to enjoy the cool leather on his skin. “Thought you’d like that.”

“I do.” Castor leans in and plants a kiss just above the line of coarse hair leading down under his waistline. Bull utters a wordless murmur of pleasure and steps back, bending down to slip off his boots, setting them neatly aside.

Bull turns his back toward Castor, then looks over his shoulder, smiling almost mischievously before he drops his trousers.

Castor laughs, feeling himself blush ridiculously, as Bull bares his ass. He bends forward just a little, striking a pose that is somehow simple yet utterly obscene, a talent Castor imagines comes from spending so much time at taverns, studying the dancers.

“Oh, go on,” he says, trying not to show how much this ridiculous display is actually getting to him.

“Mmh,” Bull chuckles, and turns slowly. Castor only rarely sees Bull’s cock when it’s flaccid, and it holds some fascination for him, hanging there, so big and daunting. He would feel ashamed if he weren’t so captivated.

“There’s that smile,” Bull teases, and comes back over to the bed, climbing on and stretching out. “There. Why don’t you make yourself more comfortable.”

Castor looks at him, lounging as casually as if he were fully dressed, and leans down to take off his own boots.

“There we go,” says Bull, his voice dipping low, almost a purr. “No Inquisition. No war. Nothing outside this room. Just you, and me.”

Castor breathes out, allowing this mantra to roll over him, sooth the aches in his back. He sets one boot aside and is about to work on the other when Bull draws his attention back up.

“So,” he says. “What’d you wanna talk about?”

Castor has little time to even think about how he’s going to reply. The door to the battlements _opens,_ and he looks up sharply, his heart just about stopping.

“Sorry to disturb your rest, Inquisitor,” says Cullen, his attention wholly fixed on the reports in his hand even as he ambles into the room. “But our fortifi—”

He glances up and recoils back as if he’s been kicked, holding up both hands and the reports to shield himself from the sight of Bull lying sprawled and naked on the bed. “Oh, sweet _Maker,”_ he says, sounding halfway between horrified and impressed.

“Cullen!” says Bull cheerfully. “How’s it going?”

“Is the Inquisitor awake?” Josephine steps up behind Cullen, strolling in even as the Commander stares at her with wide, panicked eyes. “I thought perhaps we—oh!” She stops short with a little gasp and a squeak, her eyes darting immediately from Bull himself to Bull _himself._

Fanfuckingtastic. Castor stands there, conspicuously wearing only one boot, and manages to say, “This is actually, um…” before his voice totally gives up on him. What are they doing here. _Why are they here._ This is Leliana’s doing, it has to be. Who else would know he was coming here to ‘rest’? Well, apart from everyone. And it’s not as though there wasn’t an attack by spies today. They probably want to discuss that. And now they are both here, staring (or aggressively not staring, in Cullen’s case) at _this,_ and what excuse, really, did he think he was going to come up with?

“I’m so—sorry,” Cullen blurts, sounding truly, intensely contrite.

“I cannot move my legs,” says Josephine, sounding considerably less contrite.

“Is something the matt—AUH!” Cassandra manages to shoulder her way between the two advisors only to freeze in her tracks, aghast and staring as though she’s been personally betrayed.

Bull rolls his eyes up to the broken ceiling. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he groans.

“Do you _see_ this?!” Cassandra demands of Cullen, who replies decisively, “No.”

She looks back at the two of them, Castor still frozen and wearing one fucking boot. “So… I take it…”

Bull laughs. “Actually, _he’s_ the one who’s been taking it.”

Cullen actually snorts. Cassandra looks entirely unamused. Her eyes move to Castor, staring him down. “I apologize for interrupting what I assume was a… _momentary_ diversion,” she says coolly.

“Nothing… wrong with having a bit of fun,” says Cullen, trying and failing to hide a smirk.

“Who wouldn’t be a little curious?” says Josephine helpfully, causing her fellow intruders to look at her in baffled unison.

Castor bristles at that. This isn’t any of their business and it certainly isn’t up to Cassandra whether or not it’s _temporary._ Without regard to what Bull might think, he snaps, “This was more than just a momentary diversion, and Bull and I intend to continue. Is that a problem?”

“No!” says Cullen innocently.

“Not at all!” says Josephine, now looking at him with wide eyes and a slightly manic smile.

“A surprise, I’ll admit,” says Cassandra, and she surprises him by cracking the faintest of smiles, “but… not a problem.”

Cullen finally seems to reassert control over his body and shuffles back. “We’ll leave you be,” he says, and gives Castor a rather childish grin.

“Yes,” agrees Josephine hastily, grabbing at Cassandra’s arm and tugging her along with them. “Do enjoy yourselves.”

The door shuts, plunging them into silence. Castor finds his way to the bed, sitting down rather abruptly, and Bull pushes himself up, swinging his legs over the edge to sit beside him. He sighs as though invigorated by the inadvertent voyeurism. “You okay, boss?”

Castor looks at him, half-ready to babble some anxious lie about being fine, but something, Bull’s absolute calm, the way he’s watching so attentively, actually brings him right down. He says, a little surprised, “You know, I believe I am.”

Bull smiles fondly, and Castor feels, finally, bolstered.

He leans down to retrieve his satchel. “But since we have a moment,” he says, his heart thumping in his chest.

“What’s that?” asks Bull, sounding genuinely curious.

“A dragon’s tooth, split in two” says Castor, holding it in both hands, sneaking a glance up at him. “So no matter how far apart life takes us, we’re always together.”

That sounded better in his head. It sounded better when Bull said it. He manages to smile, but he feels terrified, exposed, panicky.

Bull looks at the tooth in awe, and makes a face Castor’s never seen on him before. He looks… _touched._

“Not often people surprise me, kadan,” he says softly.

“Kadan?” Castor echoes, happy to hear it again, even not knowing what it means.

“Kadan.” Bull sinks forward and cups his hand around Castor’s face. “My heart.”

Oh. _Oh._

Castor melts backward onto the bed, letting Bull lay him down and climb over him. “Kadan,” he says again, testing, tasting it. Bull smiles and presses a kiss to his neck, his jaw, his mouth. One big hand reaches between them, takes the tooth gently from Castor and sets it aside, then catches both his wrists.

“It’s from the Frostback, isn’t it?” Bull murmurs.

Castor stretches out beneath him. “Was it obvious?”

“No, you really snuck this one past me.” He smiles, brushing his cheek against Castor’s neck, tickling him with his stubble. “You were great in that fight.”

“I was not. I was a mess.”

“You looked great.” Bull releases him and sits back up to relieve Castor of his clothes. “What are you in the mood for?”

“You,” says Castor, then, “Anything.”

Bull chuckles, slips off the remaining boot, helps him out of his pants. “I’ll see what I can do.”


End file.
